When Lucy and Bill got out of the taxi at 36 quai des Orfèvres, they discovered it was just another gray Paris building, perhaps a bit plainer than most, with its orderly rows of windows. She thought fleetingly of the architecture back in Maine, which had a lot more variation: some buildings were brick and square, and others were rambling, had cedar shingles or clapboard siding, and often had a window stuck in an odd place or a roof that sagged. In Paris there was a strange uniformity. The buildings were all similar, they were even the same height, and you couldn’t tell what was behind those neat facades. Apartments? Offices? Schools? They all looked alike, but sometimes you got a glimpse through one of those courtyard doors and were surprised to see a garden or a pile of junk or kids playing in a school yard.

Once inside the big square building, they had to pass through a thorough security check and then were directed upstairs, to the offices of the brigade criminelle. Bill was given a seat in a poorly lit hallway, and Lucy was taken inside a rather cluttered office crowded with desks, where Lapointe was waiting for her.

“Madame Stone, take a seat,” he said, indicating a chair next to his desk. Unlike the other desks in the shared office, which were covered with stacks of papers, Lapointe’s was bare, except for a phone and a computer. He didn’t raise his eyes from the screen as she sat down, and his hands were busy on the keyboard. Noticing a card holder on one corner, Lucy took a card and tucked it in her pocket.

“I see from my notes that you were a student at the cooking school of Laurence Bruneau. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” said Lucy, thinking this was an odd line of questioning.

“You came to France to study la cuisine?”

“Not exactly,” said Lucy. “The trip was a sort of prize, an award. There is this TV show in America, Norah !, and the star, Norah Hemmings, rewards people who do good in their communities. My friends and I created the Hat and Mitten Fund in our town, which gives warm winter clothing and school supplies to kids who don’t have them.”

“In America children don’t have hats and school supplies?” asked Lapointe, seeming puzzled.

“It’s the sad truth,” said Lucy. “Winter clothing is expensive, and kids grow fast. It’s a problem for some families with limited incomes. It’s the same with school supplies. Paper and pencils get used up.”

Lapointe was clicking away on his computer, and his eyes never met hers. “And this Norah Hemmings, she gives you and your friends a trip to France? Wouldn’t it have been better to donate that money to your Hat and Mitten Fund?”